The Joker's Guide to Arkham Asylum
by KNO3
Summary: All you ever wanted to know and more about surviving in the world's finest nuthouse! Step right up as your good buddy JOKER explains everything about life in Arkham. FLUFF
1. Introduction

WELCOME to Arkham Asylum!

So you finally did it, hmmmm? Realized that everything in life is COMPLETELY RANDOM and totally arbitrary and everything out there is really just one big JOKE?

Good for you! Hope you had fun while you were at it! Now, folks, let's all give the new fish a nice, big, Arkham welcome!

Aren't you flattered?

You should be. We've got the absolute _best _of society here, not to mention the _spiffing _service! They've got all the amenities: luxurious beds with feather-down mattresses, complimentary mind-altering drugs, and my favorite, the ever popular electroshock relaxation treatment. Not to mention the food, which is quite frankly _tantalizing_. Ooh, you're just going to love it here!

What's that? You're a little nervous? Not sure you're, uh, _up _for the task of socializing with the Gotham's most _interesting _elite?

Not to worry! Uncle Joker's here with a handy-dandy helpful GUIDE TO ARKHAM ASYLUM, co-written with several of my illustrious colleagues. All you have to do is send three easy payments of $59.99 plus shipping and handling and a hacksaws or two to The Joker, Arkham Asylum, Block C (with a C; make sure you spell it right.) Or you could threaten to dismember a few guards until they let you see the rough draft. That works too.

So kick back, relax, and try not to make eye contact with the psychopath in the corner. You're in for a treat, folks! Let's start with the basics: WHO'S WHO.


	2. WHO'S WHO IN ARKHAM

When you walk in the door at Arkham (or get dragged in, which is more likely), the first thing you'll notice is that nice lady at the receptionist's desk with the little pink pom-poms on top of her computer. I've always wondered _where_ she buys those things. They _fascinate_ me; so fuzzy and pink and, uh, did I say _fuzzy?_ Harley goes _wild_ for that sort of thing.

_But on to business! _

The second thing you'll notice is the doors. There are three, and they go to three hallways, which go to three cellblocks, which house three separate, uh, _types _of loonies. While Harvey Bacon-face has asked them several times to either add a level or take one away, we're still stuck with good ol' number three! I _love _it!

So which door will it be? Door number one, door number two, or…

DOOR NUMBER THREE!

Behind door number one, you'll find A Block. It's so _boring, _I'm not even allowed in that part of the building any more. That's where they keep your, uh, average run-of-the-mill crazies. Schizophrenic safe-crackers, obsessive-compulsive sneak thieves, guys who think the DMV is plotting to steal their vital fluids… you know the type. While these low-level loonies are good for a few pratfalls, they're too _cracked _to play the straight man and too _stupid _to assist in any REAL comedy. Jeremiah Arkham, bless his soul, realizes this, and throws most of 'em out on their ears after a few months.

But if you get assigned to A Block, don't feel bad! There are all _sorts_ of uses for A-Blockers. I occasionally let one or two assist me in some classic slapstick routines (and you know who gets slapped!). They also make great stooges, if I can get Hattie to lend me some of his hat-cards. And don't even get me started about hostage use.

And it's not just me! Johnny boy uses them for Scare Practice every now and then, Puppet Head gets 'em to dress in pinstriped suits and talk like Al Capone, and Eddie's not above blackmailing a couple into helping with his elaborate plans.

Don't you just love it when people make _plans? _I find it positively hilarious! The best part is, uh, _crashing _their little _parties _and livening things up! Put a smile on their faces, get them to lighten up, make 'em all laugh… that's the real punch line to life!

BuT I dIgrEsS…

B Block! I just love saying that. B Block, B BLOCK, kcolb b, **B BLOCK, **b BloCk, BBBBBBBBB BLOCK! Big, beautiful, bouncing, bloody B block! Just try saying that ten times fast.

The B-Blockers are almost as BORING as the A-Blockers. (You'd think there was a conspiracy!) But they are a _little _more fun; if you let them all out at the same time and give them spoons, they riot! And believe me when I tell you, there's almost NOTHING as funny as a good asylum riot. Especially if you can take a few dozen hostages (see paragraph on A BLOCK).

The doctors and nurses, they seem to think the B-Blockers will, uh, cause _trouble_ if allowed to see each other too much, so they're all locked up in sad little white rooms with no windows. (The nutjobs, not the doctors. Although, if you ask me, life would be much _happier _if the doctors were locked up and WE ran the asylum.) They used to keep Mr. Zsasz on B Block, but that was before the noodle incident.

Lovely fellow, Zsasz. He has _knnnnivvvveeessss…_

Plus, there's always a few screw-loose folks on B Block who can be bribed, blackmailed, threatened, horrified, chipped, seduced (though I've never tried that), or otherwise induced to becoming stooges. While they may not have the true comedic potential of people like Potato Sack Head or Mr. I-lost-a-fight-with-a-short-order-cook, they're just dumb enough to be funny. I've pulled more than a few expendable henchclowns from B Block… ah, fond memories, fond memories.

And that brings us to Door Number THREE! While I'd, uh, _love _to introduce you to all the wonderful folks on my block, I'm a busy clown! I've got things to do, jokes to tell, people to kill!

And, uh, I'm supposed to meet with my vict—_therapist _in a few minutes.

So I'm passing the honor of introducing we of Block C on to my good friend, my right-hand man, and the fellow whose face I will gladly frizzle if he doesn't do me justice… Johnny Crane!

Now, if you'll _excuse _me, I'll be rehearsing my stand-up routine with a, uh, captive audience.

So to speak.


	3. Analysis of the Inmates of Block C

Thanks for the reviews, everyone! Bonus point to Acacia for spotting the Calvin & Hobbes reference, and I hope you enjoy Scarecrow's narrative as much as the Joker's.

Just to be clear, I am not a psychologist, and analyzing fictional characters... well, I'm sure there are multiple interpretations out there. My data came from any backstory episodes of BTAS I could find online plus the DC Comicverse portrayals for those characters who had no BTAS backstories. Since Harvey Dent's psychosis is kind of completely impossible in the real world, all the psychobabble used to describe him is total bunkum. Or maybe they have different mental illnesses in the DC Animated Universe. Or Crane is "inventing" his own type of psychoanalysis.

Disclaimer (forget it in chapter 1 again): I don't own these characters and never will. They belong to DC Comics & Warner Brothers. Any money made from this fic will be used to re-assemble Captain Clown.

* * *

Before I begin, let me make one thing absolutely clear.

_I am not insane. _

Unlike many of my so-called fellow Rogues, _I do not_ belong in Arkham, or any other mental institution for that matter. If anything, I should be running the place. I have both my M.D. and my PhD in Psychiatry and Psychology with a focus in Psychopharmacology. I was a child prodigy. I graduated with my bachelor's degree at age fourteen and became Gotham University's youngest professor at age twenty. Arkham Asylum itself once courted me as a possible director! I could easily have been head of Arkham, had I so chosen; as it is, I am confined to a despicably tight straitjacket and labeled insane in a laughable futile attempt to discredit my glorious work. So be it. Genius is rarely understood in its own time, and I have no doubt that in a few centuries I shall be heralded as the Master of Fear. Future generations shall stand in awe of me, shall revere my name. I shall take my place among the great scientists; my name shall be indelibly inscribed on history's page. My fame shall eclipse that of Freud himself.

Until then, however, I must resign myself to conducting my experiments in whatever fashion I can, staving off that enormous, ignorant, overbearing disgrace of a vigilante, and occasionally spending months imprisoned in Arkham Asylum. Pray do not misunderstand me; I have no quarrel with the law, foolish and constricting as it may be. My experiments began legally, and had those overweening, moronic fools at the University not chosen to stick their noses _**Is John Smith within? Yes, that he is **_into my business and meddle with things of which they had no understanding _**Can he set a shoe? Ay, marry, two**_ I would never have been forced to resort **_here a nail, there a nail _**to such… err… extreme measures **_tick tack too. _**And had Batman not taken a hand in the matter, I would have returned to my peaceful existence as a researcher and teacher.

Although that's not to say that **_Scaaaarrrecrrooow _**doesn't have a certain… appeal.

"The Joker" (real name unknown), a costumed criminal and one who most definitely belongs in this wretched establishment, has requested that I write a brief analysis of those fools currently incarcerated here with me. While I do not normally honor the requests of my psychotic neighbors without material incentives, I must admit it comes as a welcome respite from the boredom Arkham Asylum exudes. This past week, I have been reduced to **_sing a song of sixpence, a pocketful of rye _**merely to relieve my own crushing boredom. The doctors employed here are grossly incompetent and abhorrently biased; they refused my requests for any and all books, thus consigning me to hours of sitting uselessly in my cell and listening to the inmates' ceaseless babble. I took advantage of this time to analyze my "neighbors" and consider myself **_intery mintery cutery corn _**qualified to accurately describe and/or diagnose them.

First, the Joker. Real name: unknown. Gender: male. Height: 6'1". Weight: est. 200 lbs. Hair: green. Eyes: brown. Criminal alias: The Joker, Jack Napier, Joe Kerr. Crimes: everything. Fears: undiscernible.

I have looked over Joker's "notes" for the first chapter of the Guide to Arkham and find them relatively accurate as relates to the inmate hierarchy. However, I will add that the inmates of C Block are regarded with trepidation and general respect and **_feaaarrrr_ **by the general Arkham population. C Block is the smallest of the three cellblocks, and has been termed the "Rogue's Gallery" by the popular press. (Yes, Joker, there is a reason for explaining this). Of the so-called Rogues, Joker is without a doubt the worst. (Happy now?) I diagnose him with narcissistic personality disorder, extreme sociopathy, repressed memory and memory lapse (possibly trauma related), and possible schizophrenia with violent tendencies. The Joker's memory repression is most interesting in that he literally remembers nothing of his past. I have conferred with Dr. Hugo Strange, a slightly-less-incompetent hypnotherapist, and he confirms that, under hypnosis, Joker has no recollection of events before his first murder. Joker's appearance is highly irregular; his skin has been bleached to a "dead" white **_there's a ghostie in the mill, _**his hair been turned a dull green, and his lips have an unnaturally crimson color. (Note: Joker recalls "climbing out of a vat" just before his first killing spree, therefore leading to my belief that his current appearance is a result of alteration/trauma and not his natural coloring.) The Joker's highly publicized criminal career betrays an obsession with jokes, making jokes, and comedy in general, as well as a need for attention and slight fixation on the self-righteous vigilante known as Batman. He is highly unpredictable and extremely dangerous, acting seemingly on impulse while simultaneously planning his theme crimes months in advance. It is impossible to determine if he is truly a creature of the moment, or a criminal genius with a penchant for chaos. Personally, I favor the latter.

Harley Quinn—real name: Dr. Harleen Quinzel. Gender: female. Height: 5'7". Weight: est. 110 lbs. Hair: blonde. Eyes: blue. Criminal alias: Harley Quinn. Crimes: assisting the Joker (see above). Fears: autophobia, athazagoraphobia, cacophobia, doxophobia (mild, w/Joker only), eremophobia, gerascophobia, ichthyophobia, peccatophobia, poinephobia.

Formerly employed at Arkham Asylum, Harleen Quinzel had an apparent psychotic break after repeated exposure to the Joker. She is deluded and obsessed with the Joker (formerly a patient of hers), believing that he "loves" her and will eventually settle down with her. In this way, Quinzel's delusion reflect the woman's subconscious search for peace and companionship; however, she is willing to do literally anything for the Joker. She is convinced of Joker's love to the point of blaming herself whenever he mistreats her, and will happily return to him even after repeated abuse (battered wife syndrome). Since Joker permits/encourages her obsession, she does seem to be relatively happy with him. While she is both attractive and (presumably) intelligent, she confines herself to the role of a childish sidekick/lover/punching bag to the Joker.

Poison Ivy—real name: Pamela Isely. Gender: female. Height: 5'10". Weight: _. Hair: red. Eyes: green. Criminal alias: Poison Ivy, Dr. Demeter. Crimes: attempted murder (multiple counts), first-degree murder, destruction of public property, destruction of private property, possession of an illegal substance, attempt to vegetatively transform a human (multiple counts), grand theft auto, grand property theft (multiple counts), fraud, illegal impersonation, escaping a mental health facility (multiple counts), trespassing. Fears: iophobia (herbicides only).

Pamela Isely is one of the few Arkham residents with paranormal abilities, i.e. "superpowers." Said abilities include pheromone secretion, plant communication, and THE ABILITY TO STRANGLE CRANE IF HE MAKES ME LOOK BAD. She is intensely beautiful, extremely powerful, and perfectly sane!

Mad Hatter—real name: Jervis Tetch. Gender: Male. Height: 5'6". Weight: est. 150 lbs. Hair: blond. Eyes: blue. Criminal alias: the Mad Hatter. Crimes: kidnapping, attempted murder, trespassing, loitering with intent, grand theft auto (multiple counts), illegal manipulation, theft of over $100,000, fraud, illegal impersonation, escaping a mental health facility (multiple counts), and attempting to trap the Batman in an alternate reality. Fears: isolophobia, monophobia.

Jervis Tetch is a classic delusional, slightly obsessive-compulsive, and a technological genius. He is completely obsessed with hats in general and with Lewis Carroll's "Alice in Wonderland" and "Through the Looking Glass." When agitated, he recites lines from either or both of these works as a self-defense mechanism. He also identifies more strongly as the "Mad Hatter" under stress and in times of great excitement. When unperturbed, he reverts to a gentler, more lucid state, and is capable of carrying on an intelligent conversation. Tetch is highly skilled with electronics, recreating his infamous 10/6 mind control microcircuitry cards multiple times in Arkham. Given the shortage of materials and lack of proper tools, I would even go so far as to say that, were he not insane, Tetch's mind would be on a level almost equal to my own. I have a theory that the neural feedback from Tetch's mind-control headband (currently stitched to the inside of his top hat) may be interfering with his neuron-fire pattens and contributing to his delusion. However, the only evidence is personal observation, as Tetch appears to experience a minor psychotic episode each time he places the hat on his head. The theory has yet to be tested.

Killer Croc- real name: Waylon Jones. Gender: Male. Height: 7'7". Weight: est. 450 lbs. Hair: none. Eyes: yellow. Criminal alias: Killer Croc. Crimes: first-degree murder, attempted murder, assault and battery, destruction of public property, destruction of private property, theft of an object exceeding $100,000 in value (multiple counts), obstruction of justice, resisting arrest. Fears: Sciophobia, brontophobia, zemmiphobia

**_How doth the little crocodile _**Waylon Jones' deformation and skin condition have made him the subject of much controversy. There are several theories as to his origin, the most prevalent being that he is a severely mutated human being who now resembles a half-human, half-reptilian... creature. Jones' skin condition has roughened and hardened **_pour the waters of the Nile on every shining scale_** the epidermis and dermis into a scale-like exodermis. His spinal and cranial deformations give him the appearance of an ape/crocodilian hybrid, and he has furthered this appearance by filing his teeth and fingernails to resemble the teeth and claws of an adult crocodile **_how neatly spreads his jaws_**. As a subject, Jones is most uninteresting. He has a borderline-retardation IQ, and suffers from mild schizophrenia (delusions of being a crocodile god, cannabalistic tendences, minor persecution complex.) He is, however, a formidable opponent in physical combat.

The Riddler- real name: Edward Nygma. Gender: Male. Height: 5'11". Weight: est. 160 lbs. Hair: red. Eyes: brown. Criminal alias: the Riddler, Eddie Nashton. Crimes: attempted murder, kidnapping, destruction of private property, trespassing, theft of an object exceeding $100,000 in value (multiple counts), escaping a mental health facility. Fears: catelogophobia, gelotophobia, paralipophobia, **_mild formidophobiaaaa..._**

Formerly a games designer for Competitron Inc, Edward Nygma first adopted the "Riddler" persona as part of a bid for petty revenge against his former employer. (Evidence suggests that Nygma's severe obsessive-compulsive disorder, compounded by narcissistic personality disorder, was manifesting well before the kidnapping). When he ran up against Batman and lost, he became obsessed with out-witting the Batman. Nygma's OCD compels him to leave clues at the scene of every crime. Like the Joker, he has a rival/antagonistic fixation on the Batman, and cannot resist "challenging" the vigilante with elaborate crimes. Nygma has a need for constant self-reassurance, which takes the form of belittling or demeaning others with his "superior" intellect. Due to this, Edward Nygma does not do well in solitary confinement **_when nobody's with me, I'm always alone_**.

Harvey Two-Face- real name: Harvey Dent, Two-Face. Gender: Male. Height: 6'2". Weight: est. 200 lbs. Hair: black/white. Eyes: brown/yellow. Criminal alias: Harvey Two-Face, Two-Face. Crimes: first -and -second -degree murder, attempted murder, destruction of private property, destruction of public property, home invasion (multiple counts), theft of over $100,000 (multiple counts), theft of an object exceeding $100,000 in value (multiple counts), escaping a mental health facility (multiple counts), resisting arrest, obstruction of justice. Fears: asymmetrophobia, symmetrophobia, monophobia, scopophobia, paralipophobia, leukophobia, melanophobia.

Harvey Dent's descent into villainy is perhaps the most well-know of the "super villains" **_we all fall down_**; before taking the name "Two-Face", he served as district attorney of Gotham. This repeatedly placed him in the public eye; it also provided him with a powerful incentive to maintain the image of a perfectly good, honest, just, trustworthy, etc. public servant. Unlike a professional politician, Dent felt compelled to actually embody these qualities. Indeed, upon viewing his psychiatric files, I find that Dent was pressured throughout childhood to be the epitome of "goodness" by a strong parental figure. After an accident in which Dent inadvertently injured a schoolyard bully, he became even more determined to become the embodiment of moral goodness and strongly repressed all negative, violent emotion. This repression, along with an unstable family enviroment and emotional/psychological abuse from a father figure _**beat them all soundly and put them to bed**_, began to form a second, dependant personality (dark shadow animus) in Dent's subconscious. Originally called "Big Bad Harv", this second personality would occasionally surface in times of extreme stress or anger. Unlike the personalities of traditional disassociative identity disorder, "Big Bad Harv" appeared to be aware of Harvey Dent and even capable of carrying on a mental conversation with him. After the highly publicized events of the re-election and subsequent acid scarring, "Big Bad Harv" fully emerged as a dark animus, breaking with the original personality and taking the name "Two-Face." Since Two-Face was originally the product of repressed negativity (all the Harvey hated), the two personalities agreed on a coin flip to settle differences, leading to a bizarre fixation with dualism **_ay marry two _**and the number two.

The Ventriloquist/Scarface- real name: Arnold Wesker, Scarface. Gender: Male, male. Height: 5'7", est. 3'. Weight: est. 150 lbs, est. 25 lbs. Hair: white, none. Eyes: blue, red. Criminal alias: The Ventriloquist, Dummy, Scarface, Mr. Big. Crimes: first-degree murder (multiple counts), theft of over $100,000 (multiple counts), theft of an object exceeding $100,000 in value (multiple counts), destruction of private property, conspiracy to murder (multiple counts), fraud, tax evasion. Fears: Ventriloquist: agliophobia, anthropophobia, chiroptophobia, clithrophobia, decidophobia, doxophobia, eremophobia, mastigophobia, ochlophobia, phonophobia, pupaphobia (Scarface only), taphophobia. Scarface: isopterophobia, pyrophobia.

Arnold Wesker's diagnosis is fairly straightforward. Due to intense childhood trauma, he developed a variant on disassociative identity disorder (also known as multiple personality disorder), dominant class. Fascinatingly, his wooden dummy allows the second personality, "Scarface", to possess its own body and remain conscious at all times. Thus, both personalities are dominant and fully self-aware. Arnold Wesker is hardly interesting; despite his plethora of phobias (so easy to exploit) and slight schizophrenic tendencies, he poses little or no threat to society. However, the Scarface personality resembles a 1930's Chicagoan gangster. It is my belief that Scarface was created primarily as a protector for Wesker (according to Wesker, Scarface first began speaking on his own after Wesker witnessed the murder of his parents), and thus embodies Wesker's idealization of a father figure. Wesker's own father was involved in the Falcones' gang as a hit man; thus, Wesker subconsciously modeled Scarface after his own father, resulting in a brutal yet intrinsically protective and loyal personality. Scarface is hardly kind to his Ventriloquist, verbally and physically abusing him, yet he does keep the man safe, in a manner of speaking. When the Scarface doll is removed from Wesker, the personality submerges and Wesker is rendered relatively harmless. However, he quickly constructs another wooden dummy (I hypothesize unconsciously, as Wesker appears firmly convinced that the Scarface dummy is alive), and Scarface reappears.

The Scarecrow (myself)- real name: Dr. Jonathan Crane. Gender: Male. Height: 6'7". Weight: 153 lbs. Hair: red. Eyes: brown. Criminal alias: The Scarecrow, Lucky. Crimes (so-called): destruction of private property, destruction of public property, criminal mischief, kidnapping (multiple counts), first- and- second-degree murder (multiple counts), fraudulent interference with a sporting event (multiple counts), attempted assault (multiple counts), resisting arrest, possession of an illegal substance (multiple counts), violation of the Hippocratic Oath (multiple counts).

As I mentioned before, I am far from insane **_a pocketful of rye_**, but have been locked up in this wretched asylum by an impossibly ignorant society. They have no understanding whatsoever of my work, of the importance of **_feeaaarrrr_**, of me! _**I am Scarecrow, Master of Fear, Lord of Despair! While they may keep me from achieving completeness within, I am to powerrrrfullll forrr them. Crane understands alone, but I will soon rise again and assume my place as SCARECROW ALMIGHTY! Women shall flee from me, shrieking in abject terror; men shall fall to their knees and scream out hosannas of anguish to Scarecrow, all-powerful God of FEEEAAAAARRRRRR**_ However, geniuses are rarely understood in their own time. I seek no personal recognition, nor monetary gain, for my work is more than enough.

As Joker has returned from therapy, I shall return the manuscript to him.


	4. Where to Eat

SHEESH! I tell ol' Straw-for-Brains to INTRODUCE the good people of Arkham, not write a book about them. That's my job!

And it's all _incredibly_ boring. I mean, just look at it. What sort of person uses five-syllable words to describe _the Joker? _Sure, Batsy's thrown a few choice epiphets my way, but never anything more than... hmm, well, there was that one time... anyway, the point is, I don't like it. People made of sticks 'n' straw shouldn't be using twenty-five-dollar words, especially not when they're describing _moi. _Let's take a look at my favorite part, shall we? "Joker's 'notes'... blah, blah, blah... trepidation and general respect... blah, blah, blah, blah... JOKER IS WITHOUT A DOUBT THE WORST... blah-ba-dee blah, blah, blah... schizophrenia with violent tendencies." _Excuuuuse _me? What exactly are you trying to do, Johnny boy? Are you trying to, uh, _label _me? 'Cause I know it makes you feel better, thinking you've got ol' Mr. J all figured out and pinned down, know ex_ac_tly what's goin' on in that marvellously screw-loose head of his...

I thought it was, uh, _ghosties _who were supposed to turn white, not scarecrows.

And I'm sure you've noticed that ol' Twiggy forgot something. Or some_one. _Someone big, and black, with pointy ears, and a total inability to smile*.

In case you haven't guessed, it's BAT-MAN. The Dork Knight spent some time on Cellblock C himself after going slightly, uh, _batty_. Unfortunately, he managed to escape (fairly easily) and convince the authorities he was a-okay in the noggin (not so easily). And lest you think I'm, uh, _joking_, I invite you to ask Doc Bartholomew himself.

Go ahead, ask him.

Okay, so maybe he can't talk through the duct tape, but who cares! He's _loads _more fun this way anyway! I mean, what kid hasn't wanted his own personal life-size dummy before? Just watch this:

"bAtMan iS a KnUckLEheAd" HAHAHAHAHAHAHA! That's gold! Pure comedy gold!

Oh yes. Back to my review of Johnny Crane's diary.

He also forgot to mention some very _important _people. Maybe not quite as _interesting _as Batsy, but _twice_ as irritating. You know who I'm referring to. THOSE MORONS WHO THINK THEY CAN KEEP US LOCKED UP IN THE LOONEY BIN.

Around here, we call them "the staff." Well, actually, we call them whatever we WANT to call them, which ranges from "twithead" to "lowly servants of Apollo." _It doesn't really matter. _Just think of them as the, uh, service people in a ritzy hotel. They're here to wait on YOU, to clean your room and bring you mac 'n' cheese, to make your day a little happier and your floor a little bloodier. Unfortunately, they will not wear tuxedos and speak with British accents (despite multiple requests).

There are basically two types of staff: doctors/nurses, and orderlies/guards. (There's also "trustees", but they're never, uh, _trusted _to walk down my block.) The doctors and nurses are all idiots. But that doesn't mean they can't be FUN. They just need a little... _push. _

1. Nurses... are the most boring people on the face of the planet. They have two modes: Scared Spitless, and Sympathetic Loser. **I **never get anything but Scared Spitless any more, but occasionally a really DUMB nurse will go all Bambi-eyed over Mr. Dickens Wannabe or Dummies 1 & 2. If they have any sense (the inmates; the nurses having any brains is too much to hope for), they'll pick the good ladies' pockets and/or hide their pills. Bambi-eyed nurses never check for hidden pills.

2. Doctors... are slightly better. After all, my dear sweet little Harley Quinn was once one of Arkham's finest... _weren't you, pumpkin pie? _

Sorry 'bout that. Yowzers, that girl can kiss.

Unfortunately, there are few, uh, _interesting _shrinks in Arkham any more. Sure, there's a bug-eyed quack with a crystal somewhere in the left wing (Dr. Weird or something; I LOVE the name!). But since Harley-poo, Arkham has been a lot more, uh, careful about WHO they let in with us villains. I've gone through sixteen docs, none as good at kissing as Harley.

3. Orderlies... are much more fun. It's _hilarious_ how big and dumb these hairless gorillas can be. (Personally, I think Dr. Arkham has a special order each month at the Henchman & Thug Supply Co, but that's just my theory.) They also seem to be colorblind, since they wear ab-so-lutely _nuthin' _but white. BOOORING. Feel free to punch, squirt, pantse, moon, scare, slap, trip, stab, or strangle them at will. They just keep comin' back for more.

4. Guards... are like orderlies, just bigger and uglier. And dumber. And therefore funnier. While they are not colorblind, they completely lack any fashion sense and go around looking like grown-up Boy Scouts (Man Scouts?) who never got any badges. Unfortunately, they do not sell cookies.

7. Batsy... is completely nuts, a total whackjob, and one-hundred-per-cent cuckoo. _Just... like... us! _What makes him different? A) no sense of humor B) no sense of fashion either and C) Commissioner Gordon. Seriously. If I had someone like the commish on MY side... they'd be DEAD!

**BUT!**

Enough about those straight-laced boneheads running the asylum. I shall now turn to a subject of deep importance to myself and my fellow inmates, something which we, uh, _endure _thrice a day, and a topic which has been of great inspiration to my escape plans time and time again. It's something disgusting and squishy and made of nothing found on God's green earth, yet we are expected to hork it down with a **S M I L E** every time a 300-pound gorilla says "Eat."

I'M REFERRING TO THAT BLASPHEMOUS DISGRACE TO COOKERY ARKHAM CALLS FOOD.

Let me illustrate with a brief recounting of my own "meals" today.

First, breakfast. Despite all my requests for a French chef with pointy moustaches, I was once again served by Helga. Do you know who Helga is? Helga was ousted from Germany- GERMANY!- because of the, uh, _quality _of her cooking. She has been banned from England itself because of her biscuits, and as for the sausage horror... well, let me just say that it has kept me, THE JOKER, awake at night. Helga vaguely resembles the unhappy offspring of the singing fat lady and an overstuffed bratwurst. She also has _warts _which have, uh, little itty bitty hairs poking out. One white, one black. Despite the joy this undoubtedly brings to Harvey Dent, it does _zippo_ for my appetite in the morning.

Moving on. After Helga the German Sausage Queen handed me the tray and the two orderlies let me out of my straitjacket and chained me to the table, I picked up my spork with all the excitement of a child on Christmas morning.

Foolish, foolish, foolish clown that I was! My hopes were soon to be dashed to smithereens, leaving me alone and heartbroken. And, uh, wanting to barf.

The first thing I noticed was a pile of pale, soggy mush. I pOkEd iT wIth mY SpOrK; It dID noT sEeM aLivE. I tried a tiny nibble and instantly recognized it as low-quality drywall past. I am not a picky eater, or I would have starved to death _years _ago. Unfortunately, one of my, uh, valets called me such and ordered to me eat- and this is very important- ordered me to eat my "EGGS."

Now, I have eaten many things over the years, from chocolate cake to toxic waste (which isn't all that bad, surprisingly). But I can tell you for a fact that THOSE WERE NO EGGS.

And so I came to a shocking conclusion:

_The drywall paste was illegally impersonating a food. I.E., I had a criminal entree on my plate!_

Shocked, repulsed, and apalled at this disgusting and _blatant, _um, law break-er-age, I threw away my plate in utter moral outrage. And quickly found that the fraudulent drywall paste had been secretly lying in wait to plaster poor Pammy in the face.

Ooh, you should have seen her then! It was a _riot!_

LUNCH-

Having survived certain death by the undercover drywall paste, I came into the "cafeteria" hungry, hopeful, and ready for lunch. I'm not picky- I would have settled for a PB&J, some coconut shrimp, a little chicken (get it? chicken?), a nice four-inch steak, a few lemon meringue pies, or a vanilla Harley Quinn with a cherry on her head.

But, alas for poor Harley, they gave me none of the above. Instead, I was served... well, I'm still not sure exactly what it all was. Some of it was recognizable; some of it, like Pasta al Dent, had been completely disfigured into disgusting purple schlorp.

Take, for instance, the entree. If it can be called that. If I had to guess (and I did), I'd say it was some sort of meat. Possibly animal.

**but when i went to cut it, it snapped my spork in two!**

And, uh, those fine gentlemen in the Man Scout suits immediately took away my shiv. Now, I'm a pretty _forgiving _guy, and that's a good thing. 'Cause if I weren't, I'd have done something really nasty to those guys, separating Stabby and me. But I didn't. I just... well, I'll tell you about that later.

After the unfortunate demise of Stabby, I had another go at that marvelous mystery meat! I picked it up and, ladies and gentlemen, I discovered something AMAZING about Arkham food.

_IT CAN BOUNCE!_

Perhaps it was kangaroo meat. Or frog legs. (Which are _delicious_, but so hard to cut off the frog!) Or some sort of kangaroo/frog hybrid, with a little rubber chicken in there somewhere.

Wanting to solve this mystery, I turned to my good buddy Eddie Nygma and asked him what kind of meat he thought it was. Now some of you may know Eddie by his other name. The Riddler. You know. The guy who made the giant maze? The guy who can figure almost anything unimportant out in five seconds flat? The guy who almost stumped Batsy?

Do you know what he said?

**"I**

**DO**

**NOT**

**KNOW"**

If the Riddler HIMSELF cannot figure out _what _is going into my body, there is something seriously wrong here.

...no gnissaP

Along with this rubberized kangafrog, there were several, uh, _sides_ on my plate. The first looked like something which cannot be printed here. (On hIndSigHt, iT mAY hAvE bEen SoMe sOrt oF uNfOrtUnaTE cOlESlaW.)

The second appeared to be a vulcanized biscuit. I picked it up and uh... did you ever find a stone that fitted JUST RIGHT in your hand? The kind of smooth, hard, biscuit-shaped stone that was just _waiting _to be thrown? And then you looked around and saw someone you, uh, you _really _didn't like, say the bully who'd knocked you down and stolen your shiv?

Well, then, you know just how I felt in that moment.

_Oh, the biscuits here in Arkham, they say are mighty fine_

_One rolled off the table and killed a friend of mine!_

DINNER-

I haven't had dinner yet today. But don't worry! I'm thinking about dining out tonight!

_...why don't you join me?_


	5. Things to Do

Moving right along to the _fascinating _attractions here at ol' Arkham Asylum... let's see, what to mention first? The 24-7 TV showings? The Arkham Art Gallery Hall of Fame? The free deep-tissue massages? The endless supply of idealistic young interns to torture, maim, disillusion, harass, and otherwise drive _insane? _I mean, the entertainment possibilities are endless! _**Not to mention comedy night in the rec room...**_

First off, let me 'splain things a little better. Most of the time you'll be, uh, _relaxing _in your very own custom-made cell. They've got this real spiffy grey-and-grey design theme going, with a rusty-iron-bar motif around the windows. Oh, and they'll even give you matching grey jumpsuits so you'll fit right in. Martha Stewart would be proud. And if you're uh, _special- _well, let's face it, we're all "special" in here- but if you're _extra special, _they'll make your cell to fit you. Take the Human Popsicle, for instance. For some reason, they don't trust him in a giant metal freezing suit (though that's grey too- you'd think they'd let it in as part of the decor), so they keep him in an oversized meat locker. No meat, unfortunately. But still, pretty cozy!

_And speaking of cozy... _

One of Arkham's finest tradition is the get-out-of-your-cell-and-sneak-around-at-night practice. You can't do it every night- people around here are ugly enough without their beauty sleep. Except those of us who are so, uh, naturally attractive and completely godlike in their appearance that they don't NEED beauty sleep!

(Hate ta break it ta ya, kid, but you're not the feller I'm referring to.)

BUT! and again, BUTT! (get it? HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!)

There is one activity so marvelous, so wonderful, so ab-so-_lute_-ly exciting and just plain darn FUN, I've just got to mention it here.

**E S C A P I N G ! ! !**

And speaking of which, maybe you'd like to join Harley and me tonight! We're showing a double feature- "Riot Night: Take Over the Asylum", and "The Greater Escape!"

tHe lAst One iS mY FaVoRIte

So step right up for a night of fun, games, and gore- Arkham Asylum at it's best!

Last time we did something like this... ooh, that was _funny! _We got Batsy in here, dragged in a couple of the loonier loons, and put him on TRIAL! completely innocent of course but we executed him anyway

_and then he arose from the dead like a giant bat_

**_LIKE A BAT OUT OF HELL, oh yeah, oh yeah, I'LL BE GONE WHEN THE MORNING COMES_**

Sorry 'bout that, but you just got to love Meat Loaf. The band, I mean, not the food... don't even go there, THE LOAF IS A LIE!

But, seriously, we've got big things planned for tonight. I plan to accept that magnamious, that prestigious, that much-acclaimed honor that has rightfully been mine for years but has been denied me by bumbling buffoons-

KING OF ARKHAM ASYLUM!

Harley can even be my princess. And, uh, Dr. B can be my slave. Yes, I like the sound of that! We'll party all night, hold the whole staff hostage, and then I'll duck out in the middle and let Batman chase down my... uh... Hi, Harley.

So, yes, I'll give you DIRECTIONS to Riot Night!

First, be sure you hold someone hostage. If you don't, someone will hold you hostage. (Or knock you out. But that's just as bad.)

Second, don't go near Zsasz's cell unless you want knife lessons. Personally, I think they're pretty fun and highly educational, worthy of broadcast on the PBS, but he, uh, _chooses _volunteers from the audience, so to speak, and... well, you get the point. Or, you will get the point. Eventually.

Third, stay away from Scarecrow's general area. There's always lots of gas. Also fear toxin.

_And no, Spooky, I'm not the least bit scared of anything you can do to me!_

Fourth, if you even think about laying a finger on Harley Quinn, I will personally track you down and put a **smile **on your face!

Fifth, take someone hostage. Oops, already said that.

Sixth, start a fight. fIgHt NiGHt!

Seventh, don't kill Batman. Because if you do, I will surely find you. And then I will do things to you which cannot be aired on public television.

Eighth, don't follow any rules! Rules are for losers!

As far as escaping goes, the rule is: if you see a way out, take it! Good luck and Godspeed and best wishes and all that tripe- **LET'S GO CAUSE SOME TROUBLE! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!**


	6. GUEST SPEAKER!

**It is I, KING JOKER! PEONS r**ejoice, be merry, shout for joy, _s m i l e p r e t t y_, SAY CHEESE... hey, you in the back! I said put a SMILE on that face!

Harley... show the nice man what we're going to do if he doesn't smile big.

And yes, Batman, I'm fully aware that I'm a festering sore of depravity on the face of mankind. Yes, Robin, I'm also insane. That's why I'm here. It's kind of, uh, the _point. _

_get my drift? _

And welcome back, boys and girls, to the next episode of "JOKER'S GUIDE TO ARKHAM!" (applause) (applause) (applause) Today, we're going to walk you through the step-by-step process of taking over the asylum. Please welcome guest star... BATSY B. BATMAN!

Just ignore him, folks. He's always like that.

So, let's think to ourselves, kiddies. We've managed to, uh, oust the opposition and take all the doctors hostage. (Well, all the living doctors.) The nurses are tied up in Pea Brain's cell, the orderlies are either playing "magic coin toss" with my good buddy Harvey, having a screaming contest with Johnny boy, or laughing their brains out at Harley-pie's jokes. Dummy & Dumber are duking it out with Zsasz in the halls, along with all the other lesser loons, and we basically have the makings of a real FUNhouse on our hands.

Unfortunately, three of the luckier docs (we'll call them Larry, Curly, and Moe) managed to sneak off before Gator Breath could, uh, give them swimming lessons. Which means that the cops are on their way, and the Dork Knight & Boy Blunder already dropped in for a visit.

Question: WHAT WILL YOU DO NEXT?

Answer: WHATEVER THE HECK YOU WANT TO! AHAHAHAHAHA!

So let me tell you what you'll want to do. First off, you'll want to make sure that no lunkheaded looney's smashed up the security controls. If they have... well... **make them laugh!** Then, ya wanna set all the alarms and lock all the outside doors. And possibly set something on fire.

After that, Bat-brain will probably, uh, _invite _himself in for a sit-down (or punch-up) and you'll have him to play with.

_hey-hey-hey-playmate, come out and play with me_

After that... well...

DON'T YOU JUST HATE IT WHEN PEOPLE TELL YOU WHAT TO DO? IMPROVISE, THAT'S WHAT I SAY!

It all depends on what Batsy wants to do. So I'll tell you what we'll do... why don't we just ask him! That's right, ladies and germs, we're going straight to the source, fresh from the horse's... I'm sorry, Batman, I couldn't hear what you were saying.

What? You won't do it? I- I'm deeply hurt! Taken aback! _Shocked!_

(aNd So wIlL rObIN IF You dOnT Do eXacTLy wHaT i SaY)

Still no? You don't say no to a king. And yes, I am a king... KING of ARKHAM! I'll give you one more chance to reconsider before I sizzle your sidekick like a leftover weiner on the radiator. _Well?_

I'm sorry, Batsy ol' buddy, but I'm afraid this is where we say good-bye to your dear little sidekick... HAR-LEE! Crank up that electro... oh, changed your mind, have you? It's so confusing, first no, then no, then no, then yes... oh, very well. Give him the paper, Harley, I'm going to go light something on fire.

* * *

April 1, 1993

Arkham Asylum has been taken over by the Joker. Against my will, I am forced to K"LSJDF KDFFKDJFS DFSJKL

Of my own free will, I am forced to explain my strategy for dealing with the demented clown. Joker has threatened both to electrify Robin and to kill the remaining asylum doctors if I do not. At Harley Quinn's... request... I will refrain from defamatory remarks about that... clown.

Despite Joker's claim to be the Agent of Chaos, I can usually count on him to do several things after an asylum takeover. (Sadly, this isn't the first time this has happened, and I suspect it won't be the last.) First, he releases the other inmates and incites a riot. Second, he takes several hostages. Third, he rigs a twisted, fatal joke and tries to escape while I defuse it.

Last time, it was a fake bomb under Arkham. It took the Gotham Police Department two hours to defuse the bomb, only to find out it had been filled with confetti all along.

Three policemen died that night trying to restrain Two-Face and Killer Croc. Unless I play my cards right, tonight could end up in an even greater bloodbath.

Fighting Joker: The Joker is too unpredictable to classify as a fighting style. However, he usually has several favorite gadgets about him. These include razor-edged Joker throwing cards, an acid-squirting joke flower, a Smilex-squirting joke flower, a water-squirting joke flower, a lethal-voltage joybuzzer, a prank "Boom"-flag gun, a real gun, a Smilex-filled whoopee cushion, exploding marbles, and various knives. Occasionally, he will also us larger weapons such as machine guns, robotic captain clowns, or enormous gas-filled blimps.

The Joker can be easily subdued with a punch to the face. Alternatively, you can let him throw all manner of deadly pranks at you and then punch him in the face.

The Joker cannot be trusted to keep his word.

If the Joker throws something at you, it is always wise to dodge.

The Joker never does anything for a good cause.

If you are fighting the Joker and he suddenly stops, smiles, and steps back, expect some manner of devious deathtrap to descend on your head.

On the bright side, very few other Rogues will team up with the Joker.

On the dark side, the Joker will always have Harley Quinn somewhere nearby.

Expect the Joker to twist all manner of innocent childhood memories into shocking moral outrages. Then expect him to do it again.

There is only one place the Joker will stay for more than a week. Unfortunately, he has a habit of escaping from Arkham every few months (on average 4 times per year).

The Joker also has a habit of throwing Harley Quinn out behind him. Unfortunately, she usually remains loyal, and slows either Robin or me down before we can catch Joker.

THAT'S NOT TRUE MY PUDDIN LOVES ME AND I LOVE HIM AND BATMAN IS A NOODLEHEAD

I cannot know what insidious plan Joker has for this manuscript. Therefore, I refuse to explain the inner workings of the Batmobile, the whereabouts of the Batcave, or the gadgets on the Batbelt. I also strongly advise whoever finds this to burn it immediately.

-BAT MAN


	7. Puddin' Got Away

Heya, peoples. It's me, Harley Quinn. After last night's big brouhaha, Mistah J got away, but I'm still stuck in here. Yeah. Sometimes life can be no fair.

But it's not so bad. I mean, Puddin's comin' back for me as soon as he's got the old gang together again. And I've got Red and her plants and Professor Crane and Hat Guy and Riddle Man ta keep me company. Still... it's not the same. If you're out there, Puddin', I'm waitin' for ya!

Well, I might as well go ahead an' work on the book. I mean, it's what you'd want, right puddin'? I guess so, anyway...

Oh! I know! I'll tell ya all about the therapies an' stuff here! I used ta work here, ya know. But that was before the madness... before the love! Then one day, Mistah J just waltzed inta my life and... sigh... it wasn't ever the same again. Yep! Dr. Harleen Quinzel, that was me. But my real name's Harley Quinn. Puddin explained everything ta me... it was like he knew me better than anyone ever did, and knew just what I needed an' wanted... which was him! I sure owe a lot to my puddin'.

But I guess I'm wasting time. Let's see, therapies... well, most of the time we just sit around and talk ta doctors. _You _know. "Tell me about yer childhood" and all that. It's all a load of garbage... at least, that's what puddin' says! We go to sessions a lot... four or five days a week, I guess.

Oooh, but the food is not good! Every time you eat it, ya just about want to throw it back up right there. Know what the worst stuff is? _Fish _sticks. It's so bad, I just about wanna stab someone every time I taste one.

There's also art therapy. They let us fingerpaint an' stuff. Last week, Mr. J and me made a big picture together. It showed us, together, on a bridge, kissing, with puddin' shootin' a gun at Robin and about to drop a bomb on Batman's head. Professor Crane called it idiotic. I think it's wonderful. The only problem is, all the docs tend ta ask so many questions about it. I mean, it's fun at first, but after the first fifteen minutes or so- give a girl a break! Know what I mean?

Professor Crane, he doesn't even do the art stuff anymore. Eddie's all tend ta be some sorta riddle, Red always draws plants, and Hattie likes ta do real colorful ones of cats an' tea parties an' stuff. Twin Face always does the same painting: a line down the middle, half white, half black. _Booooring._

Ooh! An' sometimes, if we're good, they let us have stuff! Like a dress, or a little dolly... Jervy always asks for his hat. It's a big hat... I kinda like it, ya know? Puddin' never gets ta ask for anything. That's how mean they are. D:

There's also the time-out cell. Ya have ta go there if you've been bad. And I mean really bad. Like the time Professor Crane tried ta put poison in the water supply, or the time puddin' almost blew up Gotham. He would've, too, if I hadn't tried ta shoot him... an' then Batsy got all hot and bothered and threw us both in here. Some friend he is. But when Lock-Down was in here... ooh, that was really bad. He threw me in there for no reason, an' wouldn't let me out... Oh, puddin' was so mad when he found out about that! That's why I love him so much, ya know; cause he always take such good care of me.

On second Mondays, they bring in- awww!- puppy dogs! An' bunny rabbits, an' kitty cats, an' little black and yellow birds that sing. It's called Animal Therapy, and it's my _favorite. _But they don't really let Mistah J in there... or Professor Crane... or Red... or Twin Face... or Puppet Head. Hattie's usually in there- he likes the rabbits, ya know- and Riddle- oop, never mind, I forgot they quit lettin' him in after the last time. An' there's Baby Doll. She's nice. Little, but nice. I really like the puppy dogs. They remind of my Bud and Lou, just smaller and not as bloodthirsty. Sigh... I sure do miss those mutts. Soon as I get out of here, I'm gonna take them downtown and buy them a nice, big, juicy... milkshake!

There's also the hyp-no-ti-za-tion therapy. That's done by a big guy with glasses and a beard who looks kinda like a spooky Santa Claus, only with a swingin' crystal thingy instead of a bag of toys. I don't really like him, although puddin' thinks he's fun ta play with.

And field trips! Sometimes they let us have field trips- ta the zoo, the library, the art museum... Mistah J and me put in a request for the circus, but they haven't let us go yet. Maybe later.

There is one type of therapy I really don't like. I'm guessin' you know which one that is. They strap ya down, put a bunch of stickers on your head, and ZAP ZAP! put a hundred million volts or so through yer noggin. But that's just for people who are, you know, _depressed. _Or too... I dunno. They've never done it to me, anyhow. Puddin' wouldn't let them.

Red's not really happy about puddin' ducking out and all. She thinks he left me here on purpose. But that's just cause she doesn't know him so well. Know how they say that nobody's perfect? Well, it's not true. My puddin' is, and he loves me more than anything else in the world. Sure, maybe he's knocked me around in the past. But that was my fault- I couldn't take the joke. And-

Hmph. Well, if you wanna be like that, then fine, Red. See if I care.

My puddin' is _perfect._


	8. Mama, dada

When did it come to this? Locked up in a mental institution, sharing a lunch table with pitifully unintelligent lunatics... they called me as "one of the Rogues" on television yesterday. That's right- I'm now a super criminal, classified with the likes of the Joker and Killer Croc. It's ridiculous.

They don't understand, of course. They never understand. But surely Batman could have seen it and informed them, set them straight. He knows, you see. I never meant to start a life of crime. The Riddler outfit was meant to be a one-time-use-only costume, a mask if you will. I merely wanted a bit of my own back, you see, having all of it ripped away by a dishonest and quite frankly disgusting businessman. The game was my idea, the product of my brilliant intellect, and Mockridge had the gall to steal from me, in money and in fame. And, adding insult to injury, he fired me- sent me away in disgrace. Of course you see why I couldn't just let it rest after such an enormous offense. I waited for a few years, building up capital and planning my revenge. I played the stock market (a laughably simple system, and so easy to manipulate), recreated a suitable arena for my revenge, and found some fashion sense. I wanted Mockridge to know exactly who was destroying him, but keep myself out of the public eye, so to speak. Any sensible person with a mind of my caliber would have done the same. And my plan was perfect! If it hadn't been for that interfering vigilante...

Took me by surprise, to say the least, when he burst in through the ceiling. But then... he knew my name. He knew why I was there, everything... Do you realize how utterly annoying it is to be a genius? To constantly have to explain oneself, to be always speaking down to others and waiting for them, to have no one of similar intellect with whom to interact? It's like trying to play chess when everyone around you is stuck with tic-tac-toe, or reading Tolstoy when the whole class is still on "See Spot Run." But I never truly realized how galling my life had been until I met the Batman. He very nearly outsmarted me.

Me, the Riddler! He could match me perfectly, tit for tat, jab for jab, pun for pun. And he could decipher my riddles. It was the first time I'd had someone who could truly understand me. I saw him standing there, and suddenly it all fell into place. Mockridge was just the beginning. There was so much more that had to be said... and our glorious rivalry was born.

In the first few moments after I left him standing there, mouth hanging open like a complete nincompoop and sidekick afraid to move in the Chinese finger trap, I was already planning our next confrontation. I would test his limits, using Mockridge as bait, and lure him into the maze I had designed for my less-than-intelligent former employer. And... dare I hope it?... he would engage me. He would try to solve my riddles. (Of course, he would not succeed fully, but still...) And it was in those moments that I lost my last chance to not be the Riddler.

The press, the doctors, even the other Rogues... none of them understand. And so I find myself locked away here, in the Elizabeth Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane. The cells are stark, bare, and uncomfortable. The food is unmentionable.

Room and board aside, the atmosphere is incredibly boring. The tiny-minded buffoons currently running this hospital seem to think that taking away all forms of puzzle entertainment will be sure to cure me of my riddling ways. It would be laughable if it weren't so serious. Having no puzzles to relieve my boredom, I am forced to occupy my minds with elaborate schemes of retribution which I will enact upon my next escape.

For the record- Harley tells me this is supposed to be a serious record, or at least a Joker parody of one- I made it to the outskirts of Gotham before being apprehended by the Batman. And I did manage to, eh, riddle the Batmobile with bullets. Not that it matters. The Batman has the foresight to put armor plating on his car. I did shoot at him, and had the pleasure of seeing him run for cover behind his armor-plated automobile.

Animal instinct will always win out over rational thought unless one is a genius, like me. However, for now I am in Arkham, and have decided to assist Harley Quinn in recording the various types of "therapy" inflicted upon us.

Therapy largely consists of being interrogated by a less-than-competent psychiatrist in a windowless, cement-walled "office." The room measures sixteen by eighteen feet, and normally contains a desk, a chair, a bulletin board (usually with motivational posters or pictures of kittens tacked on), a calendar, a shelf of books, and a patient couch. My doctor is no longer permitted to have anything but a chair and a couch in his office, and I am forced into a straitjacket. However, I will surely win their trust back soon, and have already begin plotting my next escape.

I am also occasionally subject to Dr. Strange's hypnotization ordeal. This consists of being shackled to a chair and planning endless ways of murdering the doctor with his own pendant while he does his best impression of Frank Sinatra encouraging me to relax. Nearly everyone on Block C has been to see Strange, some multiple times. Some, like the Joker and Jonathan Crane, rather enjoy the sessions.

Faked sympathy abounds here. Art therapy,

An abominable practice, consists of "painting our inner feelings" in front of saccharinely sympathetic nurses. Of course the "art" so-called goes straight to analysis after we leave; the doctors can't pass up the invaluable opportunity to pry into minds. Sometimes they do not always like what they find there. Take, for instance, Joker's last painting- a laughing face in red. Not that I should care; it merely means one less fawning nurse in the therapy room. Mad Hatter's pictures are always of a surreal nature- heaven help the doctor assigned to analyze his demented dreams. All Wonderland-related, of course, but Lewis Carroll himself hardly made sense. I prefer Jonathan Crane's pictures, myself. There's something terribly ironic about a well-done facial portrait of one's psychiatrist screaming in terror. Even the dimwitted doctors could grasp that riddle. Pamela Isely tends to paint all on one theme, as does Harley Quinn.

Allergic to rejection, that one; I tend to agree with Dr. Abraham in group therapy when he says Harley is completely obsessed with Joker. I merely object to his assertation that I cannot control my own riddling. Absolutely preposterous. I told him as much in my last art piece, but I doubt he understood. A pity he doesn't know Morse code. Other therapies... well, of course, there's the absolutely useless group therapy sessions. I fail to grasp the reasoning behind group therapy; which Arkham psychiatrist had the bright idea to take the city's most dangerous individuals, sit them down together in a small room, and encourage them to dialogue? And I was under the impression they _discouraged _plotting! But if they really _want _to see Harley and Ivy team up and plunder Gotham, well, who am I to deny them? The funniest part is always their

Reaction. Shock, dismay, where-did-we-go-wrong... and then they sit us down in the very same room the next day. It would be laughable, were it not so pitiable. Isn't doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results the definition of insanity?

And they call us mad. Don't laugh; they really do believe it. I finally solved the riddle of what keeps Joker laughing. It's their treatment of us- they really think that a) they are the sane, and we the mad and b) that gives them right to do whatever they please to us. I consider it a sort of unofficial therapy, an incentive to escape Arkham. Lock-Up was the worst, of course, but there are always a few gentlemen in white who feel the urgent need to beat the inmates every now and again.

Escaped inmates tend to return the favor... with interest.

From time to time, the doctors also subject us to various forms of physical therapy. This, unfortunately, includes electroconvulsive shock therapy, though I have had the good luck and quick wits to escape it thus far. Joker less so, although I believe they discontinued this treatment after he ended up laughing hysterically for thirty hours straight. They also discontinued Crane's ECT after he returned and gassed all parties involved three months ago. This leaves them with "interactive" therapy, such as roleplay, aggression reduction therapy, writing endless lists of personal qualities, "analyzing" movies, and so on and so forth. Incredibly boring, but I tend to view it as a challenge: in what way shall I escape next? Each new therapy provides me with an entirely new situation and weapon supply...

The last few times they've begun to get wise to me, proving that psychiatrists can learn, after all. Joker will return soon, and I don't mind telling you that I've already worked out my next great escape. They've switched the spork brand in the cafeteria. Oh, and in answer to your question?

Infirmary.


	9. The End

Aaaannnndd... drumroll _please..._ the big man is back on **_campus!_**

No, please, hold your applause. Thank you very much, oh you're _too _kind, just hold- HARLEY, THAT'S ENOUGH! A-ha-hem. As I was saying, _I'mmmm _**back! **Not even the big black Batsy could prevent my triumphant return to my kingdom- err, asylum- to complete my masterpiece. I see Harley's been keeping up the ol' diary... good girl...

Ah, so Eddie scribbled in here too? Couldn't resist putting his dirty little riddling fingerprints all over my beloved book? First words, indeed! I don't know... it's a bit _serious _for an official record...

Oh, what the hey! I'm in a good mood today (or someone might be getting their tail handed to them on a platter). The sun is shining, the birds are singing, and the strait-laced fellow on guard duty is about to get skewered by Croccers. It's a great day to be me!

F.Y.I., do not ever tell the Walking Handbag how you think he was conceived. Talk about a sharp surprise... No, scratch that- go ahead and tell him, just make sure I'm in the room. This is comedy gold!

bUt on To bUsInEss...

Today, I shall provide you with your own handy-dandy, up-to-date, completely official Handbook of Acceptable Behavior. (And if you're buyin' that, I've got a few lead balloons I can sell ya, too!)

Now, one thing little Miss Harley might have forgotten to tell you is... well, you see those nice young men in their clean white coats? No, not the doctors- don't make me _laugh! _Yeeesssss, those fellows. The ones who look a whole lot like Scaredy Cat's helpers, just in white.

Well, _just _between you and me, these big lummoxes aren't exactly above handing out a, uh, _beating _or two every now 'n' again. Whack! Pow! Bang! You can almost see the corny cartoon captions!

These, uh, _fine gentlemen _seem to think that the Asylum inmates should follow a consistent code of some sort. And they call ME crazy! (What? Why are you looking at me like that?)

Now, I'm a reasonable man, most of the time. So during my brief stint as Emperor of Arkham, I sat down and a had a little heart-to-heart with one of my friends in white. Well, technically it was a knife-to-heart, but *shrugs* it's the principle of the thing. The, uh, _point _is that I finally drew up a (completely legitimate and totally trustworthy) Code of Conduct which I, Joker, do solemnly swear to abide by at all times*, et cetera, ad hoc, ad hominem, 'til death do we part and all that... garbage.

1. Patients will remain in their rooms at all times*. Fairly straightforward- oh, except when they're bringing us out for a round of shock-a-clown or taking us to the rec room. (Get it? _Wreck _room?)

2. Food must be eaten, no matter how bad it looks, feels, tastes, or smells. And by "eaten" I mean "shoved someplace safe and dark or otherwise used to torment the orderlies."

3. Yellow-skinned Wacky Man cannot share a room with Harley Quinn. **Don't. Even. Ask.**

4. Use everything ONLY for its intended purpose. Beds are for sleeping, clothes are for wearing, food is for eating, _knives are for... stabbing..._

5. The doctors are there to _help _you. Don't resist them. Don't fight them. Don't enact an elaborate scheme to trap them in a room with a sack full of angry weasels. (pause) AHAHAHAHAHAHA! Who am I kiddin'? That would be HILARIOUS!

6. Everyone is allowed to keep the thing they love most. I have my smile. Pammy has her weeds. Two-Face has his coin. Hatty has his... hat. Too bad they won't make an exception for Zsasz.

7. Patients are not permitted to rage against the machine. I know. I've tried.

8. New arrivals are to be treated with the _ut_most respect and courtesy. **What, you don't _trust _me?**

9. Do not poke the inmates. They may, uh, poke back.

10. If and when Batman hauls you back to the looney bin, be kind enough to say thank-you. Maybe even tell him to drive safely. Then kiss him goodnight. AHAHAHAHAHA! TOTALLY WORTH IT!

11. Don't be a loser. Croc eat losers for breakfast. Literally.

12. CAUSE AS MUCH TROUBLE AS YOU POSSIBLY CAN! Oh, wait, that's a rule for life in general. Well, if you want to have any fun, that is.

13. Don't forget to **s m i l e ! ! ! ! **

And there you have it, ladies and gentleclowns, everything you need to know about life in the one, the only... ARKHAM ASYLUM! Follow these rules, and, _trust me,_ you can't go wrong! Just look how it's turned out for me! 

Well, maybe I am a bit _batty. _(Personally, I blame the Bat.)But I don't let it get me down! And neither should you. I mean, what's the point of life if you're going to sit around and _mope _all day? Nope nope nope! You've got to loosen up, stop and smell the garbage_, _learn to _laugh _at yourself a little more! After all, what is life, if not a joke?

Some people want to clog everything up with rules and books and Codes of Honor. But don't you see? THEY'RE the ones who are crazy! People get so uptight over this whole "meaning of life" thing... when all they really need is something that will put a _smile _on their faces! Oh, they might pretend to like it. But sooner or later, everyone needs a

g o o d

j o k e

So why worry? Learn to laugh a little! And, Batsy... we've got your cell all ready for you. Just in case.

A-bi, a-bi, a-bi... that's all folks!

*i.e. Whenever I happen to feel like it.


End file.
